As Simple As That
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: Vaughn accidentally stumbles upon a personal letter to him from Sydney. He must rush to Ireland to save her from quite literally going over the edge. Will he make it in time? A Dream Writer Experience.
1. As Simple As That

**Title:** As Simple As That  
**Author:** Dream Writer 4 Life  
**Rating:** PG-13 for language and explicit themes  
**Genre:** Angst…there's a twinge of romance  
**Archived:** SD-1, here, and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** set before "Getaway"  
'**Shippers' Paradise:** S/V o' course!  
**Summary:** Vaughn accidentally stumbles upon a personal letter to him from Sydney. He must rush to Ireland to save her from quite literally going over the edge. Will he make it in time? A Dream Writer Experience.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. Period. End of story. Wait! No, it's not! Keep reading!  


* * *

As Simple As That

**Chapter One**

There were fireworks, bells, whistles, music, streamers, banners, and dancing. But it was not the Fourth of July or any other special day for that matter. It was a regular, run-of-the-mill workday, unspectacular in every way. Except that she was with him in every sense of the word. All the layers of hurt, pain, and sorrow that had built up over her short amount of years were being washed away like dirt in a hot shower. She was letting someone take care of her for the first time in years, probably since junior high. It was the most luxurious of luxuries that she usually could not afford, even on her "cushy" government salary. Nothing bad could touch her in this euphoria, this utopia that the two had created: only passion, release, and utter blissful happiness.

He was all around her: outside, inside, enveloping her in every way possible. His motions evoked great feelings of ardor, intensity, and love, and as they moved together, she wanted to act as a mirror and reflect those feelings back at him tenfold. She clung to him desperately; she needed him to keep her down to earth. These new intense emotions scared her to death: she had never been loved this passionately before, and it was wearing her out, draining her strength till she was spent. As she lay there, breathless, his arm around her bare waist, she twisted the ring on her finger, fourth from the right on her left hand. It was wonderfully simple with complicated emotions and years of frustration behind it. But she deserved it; _they_ deserved it.

Then the shower stopped. Everyone knows the feeling: when one steps out of the tub and realize that there are no hot towels left, so one runs (dripping and cold) to the hamper to pull out a soggy, gelid one. She was out of his warm embrace and felt naked without his arms around her. They were standing at opposite sides of their room in the warehouse; why, she did not know. She tried to call out to him, to tell him to come closer, that she needed him, but all that came out was a breeze, a hot breath. Trying instead to move towards him, she realized why they were not side by side; looking over her shoulder, she saw both her father and Danny, each holding one of her arms, struggling to keep her rooted to the spot. She stared in disbelief, about to ask what the hell was going on, why Danny was—

But Jack cut her thoughts off. "We wouldn't want to break the rules, now, would we? That would violate Bristow tradition." He was mocking her, pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow. Almost robotically, he snapped his head towards Danny for his judgement.

Danny's usually warm, iridescent eyes were cold and hard, mocking in the same way her father's had been. "And anyways, why would he want you? You're the spawn of Satan, herself: the woman who killed his father. He would love you…why? Because you're damaged goods? Because you need someone to protect you from the big, bad, SD-6 monsters? Or because no one else will?" The chilling, dark orbs (she refused to call them his eyes) caught her gaze, holding it, letting his harsh words sink in. "No. The only reason he would even attempt to love you is to save you from yourself. You know what I'm talking about." He shot her a meaningful glare, searing to her very core. "I know your plans for the next mission."

Rage boiled up inside of her and she tore her eyes away. Across the room, he was calling out to her, but no sound issued from his perfect lips. Abruptly, something obstructed her view of him; she had to blink a few times before the image registered in her brain. It was her moth—Irina, standing there between them, looking like she owned the world, one of the last immovable forces keeping the two apart. She was a hurdle that neither of them alone could overcome at that point in time. Irina turned to her and said calmly (with that hint of a Russian accent), "Ah-ah, Sydney. He isn't for you. We all know what you would do with him if you had the chance: you would desert him, hurt him in every way possible. Kill him from the inside out. Just like your mother."

Another feminine figure appeared in one of the dimly lit recesses of the warehouse. She slowly walked towards Vaughn so as to join the grotesque party of hatred. Her blonde hair and petite frame were all too familiar to her. She captured one of his hands in her small one, and he turned around, confusion etched into his face. Stepping into the light so that he could get a clear view of her she pleaded, "Don't go to her, Michael. She doesn't deserve you. I deserve you. Me. Alice. Your girlfriend. Remember the protocol. Don't damn it to hell; live by it. Your job is your life. Don't let this Rita woman mess it up for you." He suddenly gave up his struggle against the Forces of Fate; instead, he took Alice into his strong arms and planted a kiss onto her small lips. She wanted to scream and race over to them, tear Alice apart; her heart felt like it was being ripped out of her chest, her stomach gutted while she was still alive. Even after she closed her eyes to the scene, the images still burned into her eyelids, dancing a horrible, torturous dance over and over, interminably.

When she opened them again, she was in another familiar setting. The steel sheet for a bed, the barred windows, glass wall facing the forbidden hallway…yes, she knew it well: it was her mother's holding cell. Only she was not staring in: this time, she was staring down that hallway through the three sets of locked gates. Shifting her gaze, she saw someone staring in at her. When she realized who it was, she ran towards the glass, throwing herself up on it with a dull thwack. His hands lay on the glass, sweaty palms pressed towards her. Struggling to hold back the tears, she gingerly lined up her hands with his, wanting to feel the satisfying feeling of skin on skin.

The emotions that coursed through her veins were those of doubt, longing, emptiness, and fear of the unknown. She knew she had done something to get them into this hopeless situation, but she no idea what until she looked down and saw her swelling stomach— _'Oh.'_

Turning her gaze again, she pressed her body towards his, willing the glass to disappear. An inch of bulletproof glass. That was all that separated one from the other. So little, yet so much; so close, yet so far.

She watched his fingers curl, scratching the glass, itching to feel her as well. She watched his lips as they mouthed the three most famous last words: _"I love you."_ And she watched his turbulent eyes as they swallowed her up. Slowly, she sank into those twin pools of emerald green angst, feeling every emotion he was feeling. She was drowning and she could not breathe; much like she watched him do behind that damn door in Taipei. Drowning slowly, incrementally, sluggishly, until finally…

Sydney jumped in her bed, feeling like she had just fallen onto it from the sky. Sighing in relief, she rolled over and checked the time. 1:11. There was something magical about that time of night. No one sane seemed to be awake; those people who were about were usually eccentric, strange, mysterious. Almost like her dream.

She did not know whether she had wanted it to end or not. It certainly was one of the more straightforward dreams she had ever had. The first part…well, that was self-explanatory. Sydney Bristow wanted Michael Vaughn. Pure and simple as that. He was the only one who could possibly make her feel as wonderfully free and liberated as she had been. But the latter parts were what was making her shake from her head down to the tips of her toes.

The frustration and pain that she had felt in the dream warehouse came flooding back to her. Jack's, Danny's, and Irina's haunting words resonated in her mind, rising in pitch until they melded into one long, unending screech of hate. She covered her ears with her hands in an attempt to stem the internal onslaught, but it did nothing. Even though Sydney knew they were fictitious words created by warped figments of her imagination, their meanings still hit home with surprisingly deadly accuracy. The gut-wrenching sight of Vaughn and Alice embracing was still emblazoned onto the backs of her eyelids and screamed out at her whenever she lowered them. But right after that heartbreaking image came the needle and thread to sew her heart back up: his lips mouthing the words she longed to hear him say. She smiled sadly and her stomach fluttered at the mere thought. Slowly lifting herself from her bed, she strode over to the window and sat down on the sill, leaning her shoulder against the cool window in a feeble attempt to douse the fire growing within her.

Alice. It was a nice, simple, homely, _wholesome_ name. And how she hated it. That single word embodied everything that she wasn't. Besides the fact that Alice wasn't a hard, secretive, lithe, bust-a-cap-in-your-ass double agent, she was part of Vaughn's personal life in a way that she could never be as long as SD-6 existed. Alice was Michael Vaughn's girlfriend, and as much as she did not want to admit it, Sydney was _jealous_ of her. The feeling was as alien to Syd as her line of work was to the average layman; she had always been top of her class, the best at everything she tried. The only thing that Alice could hold over Sydney's head was the fact that she had a normal job and Syd did not.

This message really hit home each of the two times she had seen her handler's girlfriend. After the first time at the hospital, when Vaughn had tried to explain, her heart shattered into an uncountable amount of pieces. The one person she thought would never hurt her did in one of the worst ways possible. She had walked away without a second thought. Upon seeing the two of them together again at the restaurant, the sky seemed to fall on her head. Without actual, visual proof that they existed as a couple, she could imagine Alice had not said those two fateful words. But now that illusion was gone: she was given a huge dose of life and she wanted to spit it back out.

She did not hate Alice. In fact, she thought she was a really nice girl; she meant what she had said. Syd just hated the idea of Vaughn having a girlfriend; it had nothing to do with the person.

The mounting frustration that had begun to grow deep inside of her was almost too much to bear. The dream had not planted the seed; it had started _way_ before that: the moment she realized that she had feelings for Vaughn and knew she could probably never have him. The feeling was so white hot it burned her insides, craving his water to make it subside. She let out a low moan as she pressed her forehead to the window. What she really wanted to do was scream what she was feeling so that everyone could hear. Will and Francie would know what she _really_ did for a living. Her father would know _exactly_ how much he had hurt her by keeping Project Christmas secret. Irina would _begin_ to have some idea as to the extent of Syd's hatred for her. Sloane would know _exactly_ how she wanted to kill him. Vaughn would _finally_ know that she returned his feelings. She wanted to speak the uncensored, un-avoided, un-coated truth. (_'Truth. That is a word I haven't heard for a while.'_)

But she could not, and those three short, simple words grieved her most of all. If she could only speak the truth, bare her soul, wear her heart on her sleeve…then maybe, _just maybe_, it would all turn out okay.

_'Wait a second!'_ She thought, sitting as straight up as if an all-seeing grandmother had just walked into the room. There _was_ a way for her to tell the truth without actually _saying_ anything! And she could still continue with her plan for the next mission. A smile quickly lit up Sydney's face as she shot up from the sill and zoomed to her desk, almost falling flat on her face upon tripping over a pair of weights. After rifling around in the bottom drawer, she drew out a thick stack of loose-leaf paper and a new pen. Passing her hand slowly over the first blank page, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles, she paused for a moment and then began to write.

* * *

"Done?"

"Done." Vaughn's immaculate smile glowed, lighting up every corner of the warehouse. "Outline of the first counter-mission fully planned by me completed." Sydney's weak smile did not reach her eyes; she felt extremely guilty for planning what she had on the first mission he designed solo. It would reflect horribly on his permanent record. His smile became even wider and he could not mask the pride that was shining through his skin. "This mission will be totally different than anything you're ever done."

'_You have no idea.'_

Syd's smile widened genuinely as she caught a glimpse of his nervously tapping leg and drumming fingers. So even the unattainably perfect got nervous sometimes. She struggled back a laugh as she inquired, "Fidget much?"

His fingers stopped their musical tribute to "Drumline" but his leg continued to bounce like a jackhammer. "Yeah, all the time. It's even considered a sport in three counties."

"Which ones? Vaughnistan, Michael's Magical Land of Make-Believe, and Disney World?"

"Exactly." The two agents shared a silly laugh before simmering back into silence.

Sydney peered at him with thoughtful eyes. "Seriously. What makes you nervous? You never seem to sweat when we're on a mission together." Or together in general, she could have added.

Vaughn shivered as he remembered the last time that he was about to shoot his foot just so that it would stop moving. Those agonizing few moments as the helicopter pulled up over the mountains, hoping to whatever God was listening that Cuvee's compound was not part of the dust that had blew into every crevice of his body for the past fifteen minutes. But slinging back to the present— "…when the Kings are down by more than three goals, and when you're off on a mission by yourself and I'm stuck at headquarters sitting in front of a satellite monitor." God, he had not even realized his mouth was moving.

Her look changed. A wave of disbelief swept away the curiosity as she slowly narrowed her eyes. "What did you say?" _'Syd! Back off! He meant it in a _good _way!'_

Vaughn was taken aback. Was it something he said when he had not been paying attention to his openly flapping mouth? Replaying what he remembered, he saw nothing wrong with it. He began to stammer. "Uh…um…K-Kings?"

"No. After that," She spat recoiling slightly and gripping her purse with white knuckles, preparing for the possibility of a speedy getaway. "Are you implying that I can't take care of myself?!" _'Sydney Bristow! What is wrong with you?'_ Her conscience screamed, mentally beating herself over the head with a baseball bat. _'He's concerned about you! That's good! He knows better than anyone that you can kick anyone's ass. Stop acting like it's your time of the month! This isn't some TV drama here! It's real life!'_

"No!" Michael sputtered in a weak defense. He had never seen Syd act like this before; not even when he had tried to explain about Alice. "No! Never! Why would I—"

"Oh! I know! I'm not good enough to complete your first assignment! You don't think I should be doing this at all! Well, why don't you go and do it your damn self—" Syd's cell phone started to beep the "Mission: Impossible" theme. She cursed under her breath and started to empty her purse in search of the small and annoying object, discarding the objects onto the table carelessly. When she came across the noise-marker, she hurriedly pressed the call button and demanded harshly, "What?" Suddenly, her demeanor became remorseful. "Oh! Francie! I'm sorry for snapping at you! It's just…yeah, exactly. I mean, he was so rude and insulting." Sydney shot him a look. "What? Oh, of course. Milk? Gotcha. I'll be home soon. Bye." Shutting off her phone, she shoved it into her empty purse. With shaking hands (whether it was because of rage or embarrassment, she didn't know), she quickly swept everything back into the small bag, trying to achieve the fast getaway she had planned.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going. No need to say good luck: I know you wouldn't mean it anyway." With that, Agent Bristow breezed out of the warehouse without giving him a chance to say something, to counter her pessimistic remarks.

Michael Vaughn heaved a heavy sigh mixed with relief and confusion. Grinding his temples with two fingers each, he contemplated and re-contemplated their conversation in the past few minutes. All he could come up with was "huh" and "blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." His mind swam, brow furrowed, and eyes stared across the table to where Syd had been sitting mere moments before. It was then that he noticed the envelope. Cautiously rising from this seat, he made his way around the table to sit in her seat. It was still warm. He stared at the thick, unsealed envelope and weighed his choices. He could always open and read what might be a _very_ personal letter like an insensitive bastard; or he could keep it and return it to her when she got home from her mission like a gentleman. After making a quick list of pros and cons he decided. _'Insensitive bastard it is.'_

Opening the flap, he delicately removed the thick wad of neatly folded loose-leaf paper. Unfolding the sheets, he spread them out on the table, smoothing the creases with his index finger. With another moment of hesitation he began.

'_Dear…To…Vaughn…Dear Michael,'_

Indecisive. That was a good sign. But it was to him. Maybe he had made the right choice in reading this. Maybe she had purposely left this for him to read. He began again.

'_Dear Michael,_

_'You have no idea how hard this is to put down on paper. I can write factual essays, debriefings, anything that doesn't have to deal with me or my emotions. If this ends up a mess…well, it would be only fitting. I'm just tired of lying to everyone: where I'm going, what I'm doing, what I'm feeling. It's time to display all my dirty laundry._

_'First off, let me tell you that I know. I know that you have feelings for me. It showed when you tried to explain away Alice, when you told me about your father's watch, when you wouldn't give up on me when everyone thought my whole family and I were dead. It shows in the little things, too: your eyes, your smile. God, that smile! I could go on for hours about how it makes my heart dance and my stomach flutter. It's making my hands shake just to think about it. There's the smile that encapsulates your whole face: your eyes, your forehead, your cheeks, your chin, and especially your mouth. It's amazing how no matter how wide your grin gets, you never look like a clown. Then there's that one where you only lift up the corner of your mouth; the bashful grin. God, I love that one the most. It makes me feel that somehow I'm the most important thing in the world at that moment. I don't know if it's intentional, but that's how I see it._

_'Don't even get me started on your eyes. Here's a secret: they were what first drew me in to you. So deep, so green, always so emotion-filled; I could always tell what you were thinking. Sometimes I just want to stare into them for hours without any interruption. Words simply cannot express how incredibly much I love the pools of sparkling, shimmering light that are dolefully called Michael Vaughn's eyes._

_'But I can't have you. Not until…well, you know when. The thing is, I don't know if I can wait that long. These feelings…they're so strong. I don't know if I can control them for much longer. I'm not worried about breaking protocol; that can always be fixed, and I think too much power has been invested into that one little rule. But I am worried about what SD-6 would do if they found out. Would they do what they did to Will? Or would they just kill us both on the spot? I love you too much to let that happen to you. You know what they say: if you love something, let it go._

'_What I want to know is how can you love me? My life is so messed up! My family is so messed up! Just think about it for a moment. My mother, Laura Bristow, who was thought to have died years ago, suddenly resurfaces as "The Man" and turns herself in to the CIA as Irina Derevko, the woman who killed your father. Jack Bristow, my father, who is also a double agent, has recently been found to have started a secret operation called Project Christmas, in which I unwittingly participated. He has also framed said Derevko for supplying false information and violating her agreement with the government._

'_Enter me, Sydney Bristow, the one person who wants to be with Michael Vaughn more than anything else in the world and the one person who probably shouldn't be. I have joined SD-6, tried to fix my mistake by becoming a double agent, almost got my handler killed, almost blew my cover, got my fiancé axed, planned a botched pre-meditated murder to get an antidote to save my handler, and on top of that boatload of shit, I have feelings for him. I think the rules started breaking before I was even born._

_'How can you love me when Irina Derevko is my mother? After what she did to your father, your family, to you? I hate her for what she did. She has placed a perpetual wedge between us that will never really go away. I hate myself for looking like her, because there is the chance, however remotely small, that I will someday act like her too. And I simply can't take that risk. I just can't. I hate myself for every single reason I hate my mother and father. Part of the reason that they make me so angry is because I see so much of myself in them; what I could become. How can you love someone who doesn't even love herself? Promise me, Michael, that if I ever live to become like either one of them, you'll shoot me dead on the spot._

_'Sometimes I think the world would be better without me in it. My father could take down SD-6; he's a smart man. You would be free to love Alice or anyone you want…and she could be free to love you back. You wouldn't be tied down to the possibility of being with Sydney Bristow. Will and Francie wouldn't have to deal with all of my lies anymore. Yes, this sounds like a really good world, one that everyone would be happy in. And I could look down on you all; you know, check in from time to time. I'm not talking about witness protection; no, no, this solution is way more final._

'_This letter won't end with hope, as it should. I feel that hope in the face of the impossible is necessary, but it can also cripple your perception of the real odds. We can't be together; it's as simple as that. If you have hope for a future with me, go right ahead. But I wouldn't hold my breath._

'_Well, I think that's about it. If my plan succeeds, this is going to be my last mission. Thank God you won't find this before then, otherwise…_

'_I've said all I needed to say. I'm glad I got to tell the truth before my end, even though I didn't get to _say_ it. Remember, I love you. Nothing could ever change that. Not a book of rules or a court-martial or death. I love you. It's as simple as that._

'_Love…Sincerely…From…Love, Sydney Bristow'_

Oops.

His eyes widened. _'I wasn't supposed to read this!'_ He reprimanded himself, cautiously refolding the papers. But he was glad he had. Now he had to take action.

Syd's writing needed no interpretation; the meaning was as blatantly obvious to Vaughn as if he had written it himself. He knew what he had to do but was not quite sure how to go about doing it. Showing Devlin, Weiss, or Jack the letter was completely out of the question. If—when—Sydney got back, she would most definitely face a lengthy psychiatric evaluation and at least a year of therapy. Vaughn did not want that for her, did not want it as much as he didn't want her to die. What he had to discover was a way to convince Devlin to let Vaughn follow Sydney without both her knowing and without arousing suspicion about her mental stability. He had absolutely no idea as to how to go about such a feat, but pulling things out of his ass was one of his fortes.

Pocketing the chilling correspondence with an air of resolve, Vaughn fled the warehouse and sped towards headquarters, all the while preparing for his improvisational one-man show.

* * *

"You have to let me go."

"Why?"

"You just…do." Vaughn's words were slipping about in his mouth, most were confused, some lost down his throat, all of them mixed up horribly.

"No."

"But sir! Syd—Agent Bristow will need my help on this mission. I'm sure of it."

"Well, then maybe you should learn to design better missions. One where we don't have to send a handler after his agent."

Ouch. That shut him up for a time. But a few moments later, he dove back in.

"Sir, I _implore_ you to let me go. My counter-mission is a little…overwhelming for only one person. It probably should be divided between two agents and I probably should have gone with her in the first place. Please, sir. If you want this mission to be successful, you should let me get on that plane instead of staying here and watching it fail."

Devlin turned his back on the frustrated Agent Vaughn, weighing his options silently. Failed mission where SD-6 gets unfiltered information on the doings of Derevko's former organization; or five hundred dollars out of Vaughn's pocket.

"Fine. Go. Don't make me sorry I did this."

Michael breathed a large sigh of relief and a small smile lit up his. "Thank you, sir. You have no idea how much I appreciate this." Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his coat and briefcase and dashed down the hall.

* * *

_'Damn it! The bottle's empty! And I still have this huge bruise on my jaw to cover! Oh well. I guess I could go retro and part my hair on one side…'_ Syd threw away the vacuous bottle of concealor, still reeling from the three-story fall she took not an hour ago trying to escape from about ten armed Irish security guards. Since then, she had taken a long, hot show, repaired her cuts with Band-Aids, and covered up approximately half of her bruises before discovering she needed a refill of her makeup. She did not really understand why she was attempting to hide her battle scars: she had already dead-dropped the information and was not exactly planning to go back to the States. But then, she remembered, she had to check out of the small, family-run inn without arousing suspicion. Trooping down the narrow stairs with a noticeable limp and cuts and bruises to spare would not exactly be the epitome of normal. There was always the possibility of passing the injuries off as the result of a good, old-fashioned Irish bar fight, but then again, that would mean _lying…again_.

Her head began to throb violently where the butt of a gun had connected with it, and she absently reached for her economy-sized bottle of aspirin before remembering. She tossed the bottle into the garbage can next to the empty concealor bottle before gathering the last of her belongings, trying in vain to ignore the pulsing in her brain. Making her way downstairs, she went through the usual song and dance routine of signing out and saying she had a great time. Before Sydney left, the matron of the inn recommended that she visit the cliffs about five miles up the coast. _'Perfect,'_ She had thought. Thanking her again, Syd left the rental car in the dirt driveway and began to walk.

She knew she was at the right place when she got there, just like the woman had said. The overcast sky did nothing to dull the effect her current setting had upon her. To her right appeared the endlessly rolling hills of greener-than-green grass and wildflowers. They were like wrinkles on the bedclothes back in her apartment…_'At home'_…The wind brought the taste of salt and the sweet smell of the sea. The beauty of the scent of fish, seaweed, and saltwater had never been lost on her; in fact, it was one of her most favourite odours. It was mellow, yet strong, and the wind allowed it to caress her skin, weave through her hair, make her eyes water…

And out to her left was the sea. Roaring, swelling, diminishing, whispering, then repeating the cycle again. The waves careened ferociously onto the craggy rocks about two hundred feet below her perch. Sound reverberated around the orifices and ledges below, echoing back up to her ears as the second sweetest sound in the world. Second by a long road. Now, if only she could hear the first—

But no. She had to put all thoughts of friends, family, life, and especially _Him_ out of her mind. _If_ she was going to do this. Was she? _'No! There can be no second thoughts now, Sydney Bristow! You cannot go back.'_ Dropping her bags on the side of dirt path, she stepped cautiously to the edge, peering over it with wide eyes as if looking upon something forbidden. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the ledge, legs dangling over, as she contemplated the quickest, cleanest, and most efficient way to do this.

Her first thought was the gun in her bag. Barrel in her mouth, slight pressure on the trigger, and Sydney would be gone before she ever felt a hint of pain. Messy, yes; but precise, quick, and no margin of error. But it was not _enjoyable_. She wanted her last few moments to be happy and peaceful, a complete contrast to her life.

_'Listen to yourself think, Syd!'_ Her heart reasoned, always the devil's advocate. _'Can you really be thinking of this? You're so young, have so much to live for. Vaughn, for one.'_

_'Well, that's where you're wrong,'_ Her mind replied, stepping in with its two cents. _'I have nothing to live for. I can't tell anyone the truth. Without truth, you can't build a real relationship with anyone. And without that, what have you got? Money? Greed? Power? It's all nothing compared to the feeling of being loved. And apparently I'm not meant for that. I might as well end the suffering now before I turn into a cynical old maid with a hundred cats and a wooden leg.'_

Somehow the two stopped arguing and she was able to turn back to her plan. The only other option, she guessed, was to jump and let the rocks at the bottom do the rest…Yes. It was perfect. She would vault off the cliff and soar to meet her doom. Slow, yes; painful, too; dirty, most definitely. Margin of error: pretty big. But Sydney would get to fly: that whimsical feeling of weightlessness as the stomach plummets to one's shoes. It would be a wonderful end!

Sydney had been thinking so long and so hard that she had not noticed the sky grow dark, laden with heavy rain clouds. She raised herself from her seat gracefully and strode back towards the path. Her plan was to get a running jump, but…oh, no. This was not in the plan…

She was crying. Stinging tears flowed in the same torrents as countless times before as her sob-wracked body shook incoherently. And she was angry with herself for weeping. She was strong, needed to be. She _wanted_ to do this; it was not as if she had a gun to her head…

Then the rains came. Water mixed with her salty tears. Lightening flashed and thunder boomed, but it did not matter: she did not see it or hear it. All she saw was the muddy ledge and the dark, foreboding sea beyond. The deluge seeped through her clothes almost immediately and chilled her to the core; the sobs were not the only thing making her shake now.

Before she lost her nerve, Sydney began to run in lop-sided strides towards her perdition. Thirty feet…Closer…twenty-five…Nothing was going to stop her now…twenty…_'Oh God, oh God'_…fifteen…About ten feet from her destination, an animal slammed into her side, knocking her into the soft, argillaceous ground. She screamed in terror and flailed about, but it kept a firm grip around her waist. Finally getting a grip, she flipped it onto its back and struggled to a standing position. A bolt of lightening revealed the bewildered face of—

"Vaughn?" She was not quite sure what she was seeing: her vision was so clouded with tears. The man blinked as he wiped mud from his face with his sleeve. When he nodded, Syd collapsed onto the ground next to him, splattering even more sodden earth onto his clothes. Bitter wails escaped her throat but she did not fight as he wrapped his arms around her cold, wet body. His embrace was tight and lasting; he felt like he was never going to let go and she did not want him to. The pair sat there together, rocking back and forth in the filth, trying to establish some level of comfort.

"I'm so sorry, Vaughn!" She managed to choke out, gripping his jacket tightly to her own chest. "I didn't really want to be so mean to you before I left. I just thought…that then it wouldn't be as hard for you when you got the news of my…if you were angry at me…" She trailed off into moans again. When her sobs had finally declined from a dull roar, a flurry of confusion washed over her. Turning to him while still in his arms she asked, "How? How did you know?"

A look of embarrassment fluttered across his features. "You left the letter when you stormed out of the warehouse. I read it." Opening his coat to show her the inside, she saw a familiar envelope protruding from a pocket. Seeing Syd's face still awash in befuddlement he added, "The old woman at the inn told me where you might be. I had to tell her about twenty times that I was Breena Calhoun's fiancé."

She snuggled up closer to him, practically climbing into his lap and nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. They fit perfectly, every single contour. Her warm, shaking breath on his cool skin was driving him insane. Leaning up to whisper in his ear she said, "You read all of it?"

"Yes," Michael replied firmly. This was the part of their conversation that he had prepared for. But all of his carefully laid words flew out of his head the moment he looked into her doleful, brown eyes. The eyes he cherished so dearly that he thought of them as his own. "Yes, Sydney. I read all of it. And I want you to know…yes." Her brow furrowed and he bit his lip before continuing.

"Yes, I do hate Irina Derevko for what she has done. But she isn't you. You will never become her, make her mistakes. You know the pain that her actions have caused; you have a soul.

"I know that, right now, your life is a living hell. Your father, your mother, Sloane, Sark…us. But I also know that I love you and you love me. What else do we need? With that, we can get through anything any of those assholes can possibly throw at us. You can lean on me; I won't fall. Not with the possibility of your love shining through on the other side.

"The world would _not_ be a better place without you. Jack is old; he wouldn't be able to take down SD-6 alone. Will knows what you're going through now: he'll help you bear the burden of lying and try to make it easier. Maybe one day it'll be safer and Francie will know too. As for me…I don't want to love Alice or any other woman. My heart has been saved for you and you alone, Sydney Bristow. You've got it under lock and key.

"And if you need it, Sydney, I'll give you the help you need to be able to love yourself. God, if you could only see you how I see you!" He paused, brushing away a tear, stemming it in its course. "Then you wouldn't run out of things to love about yourself."

Vaughn took a brief respite again, caressing her tear-stained cheek with his hand. Sydney leaned into the gesture, nuzzling his palm with her eyes closed. Even in the torrential rain, hair, clothes, and skin braided with mud, shirt and pants clinging unevenly to her like a second skin…even now she still looked like the most heavenly creature on Earth. Heaven was truly missing one of its angels. Bringing her face closer to his so that it was centimeters away, their hot breath clashing together like swords he swore:

"I love you, Sydney Bristow. It's as simple as that."

With that, Michael Vaughn seized his love's supple lips with his own, claiming her without words. She responded, pouring her mind, body, and soul through her mouth so that he could take it and keep it forever. How long that ethereal kiss in the rain lasted, neither of them knew. But they hoped that the blithe, blissful, _happy_ feeling that followed would never, ever end.

**_TBC..._**


	2. Epilogue

**This "Chapter": **Symbolism runs ramped, Syd passes out, Vaughn carries her to the motel…possible Spy!Sex?

**Suggested Soundtrack:** "Send the Pain Below" by Trapped, "To You I Belong" by BWitched, "Lose Your Way" by Sophie B. Hawkins, "I'm With You" by Avril Lavigne, "This I Promise You" by 'N Sync

**Epilogue**

It did eventually end, though.

The kiss, not the feeling.

Because as soon as they pulled away, both of them instantly hated space of any kind between their two bodies. They'd had a slice of heaven; now each wanted the whole pie.

That was when Sydney started to shake uncontrollably. Her chattering teeth were audible over the sounds of the storm, and he could feel her shoulders vibrating against his chest as he held her close. Without a second thought, Vaughn slid his coat off and sat the sodden material around her in an attempt to warm her. When her chills only increased he tugged her reluctantly to her feet, struggling against the suction of the deep mud. The storm was only worsening, the clouds becoming a natural black; if he had closed his eyes, the same colour would paint the underside of his lids. Streaks of lightening decreased in randomness and increased in numbers and proximity. Rain drops felt more like ice pellets when they hit exposed skin (that is, if the skin was not already numb). Wind screeched in their ears no matter which way they turned their heads. It bombarded them from all sides with no respite, bringing with it salt spray even colder and harder than the rain. It was no wonder why Sydney was cold.

Vaughn somehow made himself heard over the slam of thunder that he chose to interrupt. "We need to get you out of the rain! Come on, there's the inn down the road!"

She nodded mutely, no longer able to meet his strong gaze. Sydney was embarrassed. She'd had everything planned out, everything accounted for…except for him. He was not supposed to find the letter and follow after her like the Knight in Shining Armour she though he was in her innermost fantasies; no, that was just in her mind, a fantasy. It was not actually supposed to happen. And now that it had, she was embarrassed. Her mask had cracked, her second thoughts validated, and her yellow belly exposed. He was not supposed to see her like this, all weak and trembling and _needy_; she was strong both physically and emotionally. At least that was what she wanted to portray to the world and had…up until now.

'Damn you, Vaughn. Damn the world! Why couldn't you let me be happy? Why couldn't you have let me die? It would have been better without me. It will_ be better without me.'_

will 

He began running over the treacherously slippery terrain, scooping up her small suitcase as he passed it. Somehow regaining the use of her legs, Syd began creeping along behind him at the pace of melting ice cream in Alaska, more depressed and dejected then when she first arrived. The gap between them steadily grew, and he was more than a hundred paces in the lead before he realized that she was not on his heels. He stopped dead in his tracks, his feet almost losing their traction, pushed aside his impatience, and waited for her to catch up.

But she never did. When Sydney was about ten feet away she stopped cold, started swaying on her locked knees, and crumpled in a heap into the pool of mud at her feet. Forgetting about the luggage, the wet dirt, and his health he scrambled back to retrieve her.

"Syd! Come on, wake up. Don't do this to me now, damn it!" Vaughn commanded, kneeling in the muck and cradling her head in his lap. He slapped her cheeks in an attempt to warm them up, to help her regain consciousness. She had fainted, whether it was a result of the cold or her emotions he could not tell. But she was unresponsive, and that wass what was worrying him. He needed to get her out of the rain and those wet clothes as fast as possible. Deciding to abandon her suitcase entirely, he carefully slid his arms under her shoulders and behind her knees, lifting her unconscious form and confidently striding towards the inn.

* * *

"Please, sir, you have to understand," Vaughn pleaded softly with the male innkeeper. He had adopted a heavy Irish accent to establish his connection with Breena Calhoun and was currently beseeching the man to give them a room for the night. "I explained it all to yer wife earlier. Breena's me wife. She just had a wee bit too much ale this evening and is out of service at the moment." Suddenly he wished he'd had a drink himself so that each of them smelled of alcohol. 

The man looked extremely doubtful. His gaze wandered to the incapacitated woman slumped on a bench in the entryway. Running a hand through his greying hair he replied uncertainly, "I dun know sir. I have no record of a _Mister_ Calhoun stayin' 'ere. _Ms._ Calhoun checked out this marning and—"

"Cael, what're ya yammerin' on about, you big lummox? Oh. Customers." The female Vaughn had dealt with earlier waddled into the room clad in a large flannel bathrobe, slippers, and a sleep mask poised on her forehead. She smiled brightly at the latter and asked, "Did ya find yer wife? Oh, I'm guessin' you did." She saw Sydney on the bench and winced. "Guessin' she was a li'l too happy to be seein' ya, Mr. Calhoun. I'll be getting' you two our mos' comfy room as soon as me husband is handin' o'er the books."

"Keaira!" Her husband whispered sharply, his eyes never leaving the anxious young man in front of him. "How can we be sure?"

She looked at him harshly and jabbed him in the side with her elbow. "Oh, shut up Cael. An' hand o'er the books so we can give these nice people a room!" He grunted once in a final protest and stalked back to his own room in defeat. Keaira did not pay any heed to her grouchy husband. Instead she began shuffling papers and keys, looking for both the registration book and a pair of the metal objects. "Ne'er you mind Cael, there, Mister Calhoun; he's always a wee paranoid after his bedtime." She winked at him as her hand alighted upon the desired metal. Handing it over to him she inquired, "Will you be needin' anything else, sir? Doesn't seem like ya have any luggage with you."

Vaughn had expected this. "I was jus' supposed to surprise Breena and fly home with her, but as you can see—" He pointed at his unconscious companion "—she's not fit to be travelin'. I couldn't find her at the cliffs, but I met up with her at the pub. An' when I did, she didn't have anything with her."

The woman nodded knowingly. "Ah, yes. She coulda left it at those cliffs. I'll send Cael up with some extra blankets and clothes for the both o' ya. Don't worry," She added, seeing that he was about to object, "no extra expense." Keaira smiled a toothy grin and waddled back out of the room, leaving Vaughn and Sydney alone.

He sighed heavily in relief and slogged with squelching shoes back to his "wife". Lifting her in the same fashion as before, he sidestepped awkwardly down the hall to a room in the very back of the inn; suddenly he was very grateful that she had not given them a room on the second floor. The room was the only one on the level that had a connecting bathroom, Vaughn noted gleefully. Hopefully she would wake up in time for her to take a warm shower by herself. Otherwise…well, he would give her a warm shower in her clothes. The room contained a queen-sized bed, two chairs, a table, a bureau, and a small TV. _'She'll get the bed,'_ He decided without hesitation. _'I'll sleep in a drawer or the bathtub if I have to.'_

Laying her languid form on the bed, he started for the bathroom but stopped when he heard his name. He spun around, thinking he would see her sitting up and rubbing her temples, but instead she was tossing and pitching on the bed, grabbing at fistfuls of comforter and arching her back like she was in pain.

"Vaughn! Vaughn! MICHAEL!"

He rushed over to her side, assessing the situation. When her arms started flailing and head began thrashing, he decided the best course of action was to pour water on the fire. Vaughn smothered Syd's body with his own, pinning her arms to the bed and her legs together.

Immediately her eyes snapped open, took in a deep breath, the air rattling around in her lungs, and arched into his torso subconsciously. When her vision cleared she asked, "Vaughn? Where are we? What happened? And why are you…up there?"

His face an immaculate shade of red, Vaughn released her appendages and backed up against a wall. "You fainted. I carried you to the inn; you're in no condition to fly right now."

Her face became unreadable, too many emotions flooding it at once. "You—You carried me?" He nodded, thinking nothing of the gentlemanly action. Suddenly, her mask fell away completely and she began to cry, more than she ever had in her entire life. He simply held her to his body, stroking her damp hair and not even flinching when she would bite his neck in rage. What she was crying for was not even clear to her. She supposed it was out of anger, hostility, sadness, embarrassment, and her own stupidity. How could she have doubted him? How could she have doubted anything? A man who would fly halfway around the world, sit with her in the rain, carry her unconscious body about five miles in said rain, and let her _cry_ all to save her from herself…well, he was a keeper. A man _not_ to die for.

When the well in her eyes had gone dry, she pulled away ever so slightly, running her convulsing fingers over the purple marks she had made on the side of his neck. A feeling of childish wonder overcame her, and she maneuvered her head to peer into his eyes. The concern for her wellbeing and pure, unbridled love for the woman in front of him snapped something deep inside of her. She began a murderous and unprovoked assault on his lips, tearing into the flesh like a lioness. Pushing him back upon the bed she straddled Vaughn and ground her hips into his with a strength and passion that even she did not know she had. Their sopping clothes did nothing to hide their mutual arousal, and soon enough mere contact was not enough for Sydney; she needed _all_ of him. Her hands flew down and started dancing at the fly of his jeans.

Vaughn felt her fingers playing lightly over his erection and instantaneously knew things had gone far enough. With incredible strength of body (and even more will power), he rolled Sydney off of him, their lips separating and instantly feeling naked, and backed away towards the bathroom with his eyes never leaving hers.

She had to take a second to regroup. She never thought — never in a million years _would she think_ — that he would reject one of her advances, that he would turn down sex with Sydney Bristow. But he was and now she was mad. "What the hell, Vaughn? I thought this is what you wanted! I'm practically throwing myself at you, here! Now get on that bed and prove that I'm worth something! _Fuck me_."

Closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly, he pressed his back up against the wall for strength and responded, "Syd, you're not thinking straight…"

"I'm not thinking straight? Are you kidding me? I just about fucking killed myself out there, you talk me down from the edge, I ask for validation, and _now_ you get cold feet?! This is the easy part! Fuck me, Vaughn. What's so hard to understand about that?"

"Look," He began in a whisper; "I want this just as much as you; probably even more. But it's not as simple as that. This isn't where or-or when and most definitely not how! You're not in your right mind at the moment—"

"How dare you assume to tell me how I think!"

"I'm not assuming, Sydney, I know!" He cried, his raised voice startling her into silence. "We have a connection, Syd. Don't think I'm ignoring it. But this isn't how it's supposed to happen. You — we — deserve better than this. You're scared, hurt, tired, cold, overwhelmed, angry, and spiteful. For you this would be just a physical act but for me…For me, there are just too many emotions that come along with it to let it be just an act. I don't want to _fuck_ you, Syd: I want to _make love_ to you. I want to make love to you like there's no tomorrow. But not tonight. I won't let you make this mistake. I do love you, Sydney Bristow. I love you too much to let this happen, no mater how much I want it to."

Just then there was a knock on the door. Vaughn answered it and Cael stood there, a deep scowl on his face with a pile of blankets, towels, and clothes in his arms. The younger man thanked him shortly, shut the door, and turned back to Sydney. She was still livid, and on her way to the bathroom she wrenched a towel from his grasp and stalked inside. Soon enough he heard the shower switch on and steam started to emanate from the crack underneath the door.

Sighing heavily, he unfolded a blanket for himself and laid it on the arm of one of the chairs; that was where he would be sleeping for the night. His socks and shoes were carefully laid out on the floor near the table, which was already laden with his jacket and dress shirt. Both his shoulder and hip holsters were laid across the other chair, which left him in a wife-beater and his dirty jeans. He separated his new clothes (a pair of flannel pajama pants for the night; overalls and a simple blue t-shirt for the next day) from hers and laid them to rest beside a towel of his own before flopping down on the bed and flipping on the TV. The only channel that came in clearly was Nick at Nite, so he settled back against the headboard to watch "I Love Lucy" until it was his turn for the bathroom.

Sydney finished her shower in better spirits than when she started. The scalding water had not only burned away the numbness but also her extreme temper and malice. The embarrassment that she had felt before was nothing compared to what was running through her mind at that moment. Realizing that she had nothing to change into only added to her humiliation. She poked her head out of the bathroom door to ask where her luggage was but stopped short.

Vaughn was lying down on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head, chuckling lightly at the TV as Desi bellowed his infamous line. The warm glow of the black and white screen fanned out around the room, turning everything within its reach a mottled grey. The scene was so _domestic_ that even though she thought she had cried all there was to cry, tears blurred her vision.

Before she lost the use of her voice she cleared her throat to catch his attention. Hiding shyly behind the door she asked meekly, "Clothes?"

He looked up and she saw the heat rise in his cheeks. Crossing the room, he handed her the clothes that Keaira had sent up for her with his eyes glued in the opposite direction out of respect. She took them with a hint of smugness and changed quickly before reappearing. As soon as the door opened again, he hurriedly brushed past her to take the warm shower his muscles sorely craved. A small smile lit her face as the door clicked; she knew it would only be a matter of time…

She turned off the light on the only nightstand and climbed onto the left side of the bed, sliding under covers that had been warmed by Vaughn seconds before. Snuggling deeper into the lush pillow, Syd inhaled the scent that was uniquely him; somehow he had retained some of his cologne, despite the tempestuous rain. Sydney closed her eyes and let her mind wander.

Vaughn threw his towel and extra clothes down onto the floor as he hastened to turn on the shower. After waiting a few minutes for the water to warm, he stepped in only to jump right back out; all the hot water was gone. He sighed heavily and settled for toweling off whatever was wet in the still-foggy bathroom. It was then that he glanced at the wall-to-wall mirror. The steam was just beginning to recede around the edges, but he could still clearly discern the message that had been written there in the fog. The towel almost dropped out of his grasp as he read the note.

'Vaughn —

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you feel like you had to follow me out here; I'm sorry for putting you in that situation. But I'm glad you came. Jumping would have been a mistake; I was wrong to despair. You've given me what I wanted most: a reason to live, a future. Thank you. And what you described — our first time — it will happen. Someday we'll make it happen. Together. I love you. By the way, we can share the bed.

— SB'

Slapping the clothes onto his person, he rushed out of the bathroom in the hopes of catching her before she fell asleep. But as the door slipped from his fingertips and closed itself behind him, he saw Sydney stretched out under the sheets. The glaring TV was the only source of light, with the curtains closed to shut out the now-waning storm. He fended off a guttural groan as the feeling of innocence she radiated permeated his very skin, solidifying his protective tendencies towards her and encasing them in cement. Vaughn padded over, turned down the covers, and climbed in as smoothly as possible. He could not keep his heart from fluttering in his chest. This was the way it was supposed to be: just the two of them, no holds barred, being _normal_ and _domestic_, and living life the way everyone else lived it. And he felt the overwhelming need to tell her that, despite the fact that her back was to him and she was fast asleep. So he uncovered the remote, switched off the TV, and turned to her.

"Sydney," He whispered solemnly, "I don't know what the hell possessed you to think that you weren't wanted here. But you're wrong. _I_ want you. I _need_ you, Syd. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you can lean on me. With your love, I'll never fall. I can be your ally. If you just let me in, Syd…! Tell me what's on your mind, how you're feeling…then this whole ordeal—" He gestured weakly, knowing he was merely talking to himself "—can be avoided. I don't want to have to talk you down again.

"And yes, Sydney, we will be together someday. As long as we hold on to our love and look forward instead of back...who knows what will happen? All I know is that the fairy tales are true: _love does conquer all_. It really is as simple as that. And you know what? That day just might be here sooner than you think."

Vaughn paused, reaching out an unsure hand to stroke her head of luscious hair. A sweet smile spread like molasses across his lips before he breathed, "Good night, Sydney Bristow. See you in the morning." He turned onto his right side, buried his head in his pillow, and almost instantaneously fell asleep.

Sydney opened her eyes slowly, the difference in blackness almost null and void. An identical smile crept over her over features (the first in a long while, she noted somewhere in the back of her mind) as she rolled over to face his strong back. She whispered, "Good night, Michael," before wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head upon his shoulder.

The last thunder bolt crashed and the last raindrop fell from the eaves of the inn. The storm had ended at last.

**_END_**


End file.
